Lullaby
by thatflightytemptress
Summary: The lullaby is a universal expression of love towards a child. Even in the darkest, most desperate of times that love remains. A series of one-shots, from parent to child, brother to sister. Some scenes may be familiar, but others we can only imagine.
1. Chapter 1

**Preface: A series of short one-shots all centred on the theme of 'lullaby'. Some are tender and sweet, and some are tragic. All come from the Harry Potter series, which is owned by the wonderful J.K. Rowling, who was 13th on the BBC Radio 4 Women's Hour Power List, and really should have been 1st, damn the Queen.**

**London, New Year's Eve, 1926**

It was bitterly cold. The snow was unrelentless, and had no pity for the woman, barely more than a child herself, who struggled down the icy street, the cobbles slipping under her worn, thin shoes. She paused for a moment, outsite a warm window, but the light offered no comfort, accentuating her features, gaunt in both name and nature, her hair dark with greasy and dirt. The darkness of the night had drawn in quickly, but she had no shelter. The last of the galleons she received for the locket were long gone, so she wrapped her arms around her swollen belly, as if believing that the little heat that she could ill afford to spare, but gave so freely, might calm her child, delay its arrival.

She knew, instinctively, that it was time; the birth pains increasing in strength and frequency. Her skirt was damp and sticky, and it clung to her thighs as the initial rush of warmth mutated to a raw and icy grasp that made movement even more difficult. She slid down in the nearest doorway, to weak to lift the knocker and beg for shelter.

Her bones felt like leaden ice, and her tears froze on her cheeks. Rasing a thin and shrunked hand, she brushed them angrily away. Merope was frightened, and alone. No, not completely alone. The child inside her wriggled again, as a fresh burst of pain overran her senes.

_Hush, my sweet, sleep softly in bed.._

The words, the soft sounds almost hissed to herself, came from some deep recess of her mind, or her heart.

_Mama will hold you, wipe the tears you shed.._

Her voice was weak, and the wind carried it away. The snow, slowly blanketing with street, deadened all sound, and Merope let the numbness was over her finally, embracing her with the promise of an eternal sleep.

_The dawn will soon come, so I'll quiet you with charms.._

She could not remember her mother singing to her, but she sang to her child with all the love in her body. She could not tell if she made a sound anymore, but she hoped that the wriggling life inside her could hear her love.

_Lest goblins come take you, away from my arms. _

The door opened, and a young girl in a cloth cap and apron looked out. Her gaze surveyed the lank hair, the pale and dirtied face, the swollen belly. The distant and defeated eyes.

'I heard your singin'. Come in, love. Away from th' night'

Merope took the proffered hand, and staggered up the remaining steps towards the light and warmth.

Death would soon greet her like an old friend, merely an hour later, but first she had to bring a child into the world. Her child.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

She hoped that he would know her love for him.

**Authors Note:**

**I find this one of the saddest stories. No woman should be alone and afraid when she is pregnant, and no women should die in childbirth. Yet we still allow this to happen.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon. 30****th**** August, 1981**

The family was gathered inside, sheltering from the August rain that pounded the windows. His father had not yet returned to work as he was taking a few weeks off after the birth of his daughter.

Bill's sister.

Such an incredible phrase. His brothers had always been a part of his life, he couldn't imagine not having brother. But a sister? He glared suspiciously at the kitchen door, where he knew his sister was asleep in a basket.

Bill didn't understand sisters. Brother's were much easier.

Charlie was crounched by the window, gazing mournfully at the rain. He had a broomstick clutched in one hand, and was using it to prop himself up on the sill. The broom had been a gift from their uncle Bilius, given to the boys a few years ago, and was their most treasured and fought over possesion. Bill knew that Charlie wanted to go and fly in the orchard, despite the failing light and inclement weather, and it was only the fear of his mother's admonishment that kept him inside this night. Charlie was never truly happy inside.

His father was alseep by the fire, dark shadows under his eyes and Ronnie propped up on his lap. Ronnie was grizzling, the well-chewed ear of a teddy (Percy's bedtime comfort in a former life) trapped by his mouth, but he seemed content as he toyed with his father's robes. Ronnie was no longer the baby of the family, but he didn't seem to have noticed yet.

A series of shrieks and bangs upstairs, and his mother's warning voice, told Bill that the twins were resisting their bath, as per usual. He glanced at Percy, who was sprawled across an armchair, sleepy and damp in his clean but worn pyjamas. The book he had been trying to read was at risk of falling as the little boy's fingers loosened their grip on its spine.

Bill leant back on the sofa, listening to the drumming of the rain, the crackle of the fire, and the soft breathing of his family. The radio in the corner had been muffled, with the soft murmur of the WWN barely encroaching on the family idyll.

There came a sharp wail from the kitchen, and as he got to his feet Bill exchanged a look with Charlie. Charlie leant back against the window, his gaze returning to his treasured broom, which he was polishing with the edge of him jumper.

Another fluttering cry. Bill crossed the threshold into to the kitchen, pausing for a moment, and then moved closer to the moses basket sitting at the end of the kitchen table nearest the fire.

Her Weasley red hair was mussed, but her eyes were still baby blue. Her face screwed up again, and Bill reached for her without thinking. He cradled his sister, copying the careful motions he had watched his parents do a hundred times.

_Little witches sleep softly.._

He could feel a tiny thump-thump beneath the hand that cupped her back, and her gaze fixed on the glowing coals in the fireplace.

_Dream of bats and cats and toads.._

He didn't hear his mother come quietly down the stairs, her sleeves still damp. Molly watched her eldest boy hold his little sister, singing her to sleep.

_One day you will be flying highly.._

'Mum, will Ginny be safe?'

Bill had turned to his mother, his sister asleep in his arms. His mother crossed the kitchen in a few quick strides and gathered her children in her arms.

'Of course, Bill. Nothing can hurt her. Not even You-Know-Who. He doesn't care about little babies.'

'I wouldn't let him near her anyway. I'd protect her. She's my sister.' His voice resolute.

His _sister_.

_His_ sister.

The mother lion had produced a valiant cub.

**Authors Note:**

**When I was born I slept in a basket in the kitchen, and my brother was very suspicious of this interloper into his world of trains and the Thunderbirds. I'm pretty sure he loved me, though. Once he put me in a cupboard, and told my Grandmother that he was hiding me from the IRA.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Yorkshire, 3****rd**** March, 1981**

He apparated directly into the living room, where his wife was nursing their son in the dark and peace.

'What is it? What has happened?'

Alice knew her husband like she knew herself, and the look on his face, the hunch of his shoulders, was enough to tell her that something was wrong.

'Why do we do this? Why do we keep fighting?'

It burst out of him, startling the baby. Alice stood and came to him, her free hand caressing his stubbled, world-weary face.

'You know why, because we must. Because they are monsters. And now, for Neville.'

He leant his forehead on hers, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper as he spoke the deepest, darkest fear of his soul.

'What if he kills us? What would happened to Neville then?'

Her face fell. 'Hold your son.'

He fell back against the sofa and clutched his child to his chest, spoke to him.

'Oh, my boy. I love you. I love you.'

His eyes remained fixed on his son, on Neville's fingers wrapped around his own.

'Gideon and Fabian. They're dead. It was Dolohov. I took him in.'

He wouldn't look at his wife. He wouldn't let her see the pain, and the fear.

She sank down next to him and grasped his knee. Her face was contorted in grief and she leant closer, gathering her family in her arms as if that alone could keep them safe.

'I should go to Molly. They were her brothers.' She didn't move, and her gaze fell to their son as well.

_Stars shine on you, child.._

Neville gurgled as his mother leaned closer. Frank's voice joined the song, and both were heavy with grief.

_Mother loves you, child.._

The moon shone through the undrawn curtains and fell upon the family sitting in the dark.

_Father loves you, child.._

The next day they would go to Dumbledore and swear to fight more, to do whatever it took to defeat the Dark Lord.

_Wherever you go, child.._

Albus Dumbledore, his face weary and lined, would tell them to be with their son.

_Stars shine on._

They stayed there all night, the flickering light of their love a beacon in the darkness and despair the war.


	4. Chapter 4

**Godric's Hollow, 31****st**** October 1981.**

It was wet and windy outside, but the little cottage was warm and bright. Lily Potter carried her son up to bed, singing softly as she held him close.

_Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop.._

She heard James' chuckle as she began her song. She sang a Muggle song to her child because it was all she knew and her mother had sang them to her. James always said that any sensible witch wouldn't leave a baby up a tree. She thought that any sensible parent wouldn't leave a baby up a tree, magical or not, but that wasn't the point of the song. She liked to tease James' that Sirius would probably leave a baby on the moon if he didn't have a sensible woman with him.

_When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.._

The rain drummed more heavily on the windows, and there was a whistling in the chimney. She dodged round the pram at the bottom of the stairs, as the cat streaked passed her ankles, heading for James and a nice scratch under the chin. The gate creaked a little as the wind blew it, and she heard James' give a mighty yawn. Harry had kept them up late last night, fussing and clingy. They suspected he was teething again, or missing his favourite playmates. It had been so long since Remus, Sirius, or Peter had been round, and even Bathilda had been away recently, leaving them with only the company of each other.

_When the bough breaks.._

Harry wriggled in her arms, reaching for her reflection in the landing mirror. One hand twisted in her hair as he stuck his fingers in his mouth. She pushed open the door to his room with her hip. Soon they would have to invite Padfoot over, of only to give them a bit of a rest.

The was a crash from downstairs, and a shout..

'Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off – '


	5. Chapter 5

**The Burrow, 3****rd**** February 2007**

He landed with a loud _crack _narrowly missing the henhouse, such was his distraction. The bundle in his arms continued to wail, and a light flickered on in the kitchen. The night air was crisp and there was a light frost on the cobbles. Harry waved his wand almost absentmindedly at the kitchen door as he glanced down again at the squirming baby he held. She was still shrieking like a banshee.

As he entered the kitchen Molly Weasley, her hair more grey than red now, swooped on him immediately, checking for any obvious signs of injury. Harry dodged past her and settled himself at the kitchen table. Seeing her worried gaze, Harry answered her unasked question. 'Gin's taken Al to St Mungo's as well. He was turning a bit green and started sparking. James' still there.'

He looked down again at his daughter. His brow creased with worry.

'I said I'd stay with Lily because we wanted to keep her away from the boys. But she won't stop crying. I've done everything.'

Molly's hand rested on his shoulder, as she waved her wand, causing the kettle to whistle and the tea cups to dance towards them through the air. 'Don't worry, dear. It's not like my day – they can cure Dragon Pox easily now. They'll both be home in a few days.'

'She wants her mum'

The worry of a thousand fathers' echoed in his words. What if my baby doesn't love me?

The reply of a thousand mother' in hers,

'Don't be silly'

The two sat in silence, whilst the baby squirmed and howled in his arms. Harry pushed his glasses up his nows, and reached for his cooling tea, trying not to jostle the baby. A fresh shriek from her convinced him that it was probably in vain.

'You could sing her a lullaby. I remember once, when Bill was about ten, I found him singing Ginny to sleep. There is magic in music. It'll sooth any baby.'

Her gaze was not that of a mother-in-law, it was of a parent. She considered Harry to be her seventh son, and so repeated, again, the conversation she had had four times already, with George, William, Percy, and most recently, Ronald. At some point, they all came to her, although normally it was during the first few sleepless months with their newborn, their first child. Harry hadn't come to her then, though, not with James or Albus. Molly though that it might have been because Harry did not know how to ask for help from a parent.

'I.. I don't know any lullabies. Ginny always sang them. I'm more of the brooms and stories and amusing spells parent. I don't remember anyone singing to me.'

Her heart splintered a little more at those words, as it had many times in all the years she had known him. What she wouldn't have given to be there for him, during those lonely years of his childhood. To pick him up, wipe away the hurt and the tears. As she had watched him during those adolescent summers at her home, she saw the resilience that his childhood had awarded him, and the hurt buried so deep down

'Sing anything then, dear. She won't mind.'

Harry took a deep breath and squinted down at his daughter..

_'Aaaa Wizard's staff has a knob on the end..'_

Mrs Weasley's glare would have sent Voldemort himself fleeing. Her voice was like flint. 'Perhaps not that song.'


End file.
